


her flame, his flower.

by teasoni



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed III - Fandom
Genre: AC3, Character Study, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Smut, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 14:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18919162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teasoni/pseuds/teasoni
Summary: I would not make a good husband,he had once said.I do not have the time to give.But this woman, with her knowing eyes and nimble hands and copper-bright hair, did not need time. She did not need anything at all. She was her own, and he was her flame, as she was his flower, the star that had set his landscape ablaze. She did not need him as he did not need her – but they were two pieces of one whole, it appeared, and as she pressed her leg around his hip, urging him ever closer, time quite suddenly felt like it never existed at all.





	her flame, his flower.

**Author's Note:**

> i had to write something for my husband connor lest i physically explode
> 
> i have something in the works, but it may take a while. in the meantime, have... whatever this is ig

“Do it,” she rasped, pressing her body as close as she could, burning, sweating, as though she was ill with fever; and Connor held her tightly between thick fingers. Her skin bloomed underneath them – he held her thigh, stark and white against his skin, like summer and winter met in a kiss of springtime. It was a command. A _demand_. Her eyes glittered like jewels and Connor – oh, Connor could never resist their brightness.

She was creamy when he touched her, right there between her legs. Something leftover from the night before, when they had rolled in the darkness until they’d fallen from the bed, making furious love right there on the floorboards in a tangle of blankets and discarded clothes. She keened when he touched her. Felt him hard against her hip. His breath rasped against her throat just as her voice did against his ears. His heart. He touched, and she kissed him.

He did it. He unlaced his breeches with one hand and pushed them down just far enough to free himself against her, and he pushed her nightgown up over her legs, oh, lovely legs they were, too, muscular and soft and scattered with moles, a mark the colour of coffee high upon her thigh. He pressed his thumb to the coffee stain mark and slid inside her. She shuddered, her body fluttering like a butterfly freed from its chrysalis, hair unwinding from its haphazard knot, her face flushing deeply, as pink as the dawn.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered to her in words she did not understand. Words said in his childhood, days hazy, from one lover to another. Words he remembered being said beneath sunlight when the world was fertile and free. When he had known nothing but happiness.

Something deep in her body seemed to understand – something deep in her genes, in the cells of her body, reacted to it. She curled about him like a cloying nighttime fog and he lifted her into his arms, half-moon nails scraping appreciatively over his arms, the muscles that rippled beneath his skin. She would lie her cheek upon them, sometimes, and close her eyes. _Like water,_ she would say. _Or the earth breathing._

She is slick, sticky against his fingers and his cock. He’s long and thick. It had hurt her, at first, when they’d done this. It had almost frightened him away like a deer at a gunshot. But they had learned, and he had coaxed her to open for him, and now it became nothing less than an art. With his mouth, his tongue, his fingers. She opened for him as he rose for her. Give and take. Push and pull.

“ _Ratonhnhaké:ton_ ,” she whispers against the whorl of his ear. He shudders and shifts deeper inside her, as deep as he can go. Presses her hard into the wall. Where are they? Some corridor somewhere, most likely. Somewhere they oughtn’t be. She’s only in her nightgown and a robe, soft and fragrant with sleep. He likes her best like this, when the rose is not yet cut from the bush. He presses her name against her lips and she sucks on his tongue in a way that is surely sinful; he fucks her, and together they wallow in sin.

He thinks of his seed taking inside her – of her growing heavy with his child. The thought inspires him with the pain of spurs pressed to a horse’s flank. Her body jerks against the wall with the force of it, his hand tight around the back of her neck, her nails biting into his shoulders, pulling at his hair. Her teeth sink into his jaw.

 _I would not make a good husband,_ he had once said. _I do not have the time to give._ But this woman, with her knowing eyes and nimble hands and copper-bright hair, did not need time. She did not need anything at all. She was her own, and he was her flame, as she was his flower, the star that had set his landscape ablaze. She did not need him as he did not need her – but they were two pieces of one whole, it appeared, and as she presses her leg around his hip, urging him ever closer, time quite suddenly feels like it never existed at all.


End file.
